Текст книги "The Last Oracle (2008)"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

15

September 7, 5:05 A. M.

Southern Ural Mountains

Monk poled through the swamps as best he could with one hand. But they dared not stop. They'd been hunted throughout the night. Stabilizing the oar-pole in the crook of his stumped arm, he pulled and shoved with his good hand. The raft glided silently across the drowned landscape.

Over the course of the night, his eyes had adjusted to the wan light from the moon. He had grown skilled at maneuvering the raft. They had several close calls as an airboat searched the swamps for them. The whining noise of its fan and its bright searchlight gave Monk plenty of warning to seek shelter. Also thick mists hung low over the water, which helped keep them hidden.

Still, they'd almost been caught once, when Monk had misjudged a sluggish current and struck a tree with a loud crack. The airboat had heard and come rushing over. He tried his best to hide under the branches of a willow, but they were sure to be spotted if the searchers looked too closely.

Their salvation came from an unexpected place.

As the airboat slowed and throttled down, Kiska had folded her hands over her mouth, took a deep breath, then let out a low bleating complaint of an elk cow.

They'd heard the calls periodically throughout the night. Monk remembered how the girl had demonstrated her talent, an ear for perfect pitch and mimicry, mirroring birdcalls with an uncanny accuracy. The hunters had still searched, but less thoroughly, and moved onward after a minute.

Still they could not count on such luck forever. And worse yet, Monk knew they were slowly being herded closer toward Lake Karachay and its pall of radioactivity. The airboat swept the safer regions of the swamp, which only left them one recourse: to stray closer and closer in the direction of the lake.

Every hour, Monk risked lighting a single match to check the color of their dosimeters. The pink warning had darkened to full red. Konstantin had informed

Monk matter-of-factly that one full day at that dosage was lethal. As Monk poled through floating rafts of weed and algae, his skin itched with the grainy sense that he was slowly being poisoned.

And the children were even more susceptible.

The trio slept fitfully, curled with Marta on the raft. An edge of terror kept them jumping at every croak and hoot from the nighttime swamp. Marta had finally taken to the trees. She had done so periodically, even drawing off the hunters once by hooting and luring the airboat in the opposite direction. Her diversion bought them a full hour of reprieve.

She was one smart ape.

Monk prayed she was as smart as he hoped for a danger greater than the threat of radiation poisoning loomed.

To the east, the dark skies paled with the approach of dawn. Without the cover of night, they would quickly be discovered. To survive, they had to find a way of escaping their tail.

That meant leaving a trail of bread crumbs.

Konstantin and Kiska had shredded the wrappings from their protein bars and gathered their empty water bottles. As Monk churned a path through the weeds, disturbing a clear track through the vegetation, the two children had dropped bits and pieces of garbage into the water.

Not too much, Monk warned in a whisper. Spread them farther apart.

Monk had spent the last hour searching for the perfect spot in the dark swamp.

He'd finally found it: a long curving course, lined by dense willow groves and black patches of fir trees. Their timing had to be perfect. They would have only one shot. But with the far shore still a good two miles away and dawn fast approaching, they were doomed if they didn't take the risk.

The final member of their party, Pyotr, sat in the middle of the raft, his arms wrapped around his legs. As he rocked in place, he stared toward the stern of the raft, as if watching his friends spread their bread crumbs, but Monk knew the boy's gaze stretched much farther.

Reaching the end of the watery course, Monk swung the pole to the front and prodded it deep. He bolstered it with his shoulder and stopped the raft. This is where they'd make their stand.

Borsakov sat next to the airboat's pilot. The seats were perched high above the flat-bottomed aluminum hull. Ahead of them crouched two of his soldiers; one manned the searchlight at the boat's prow, the other kept a rifle ready at his shoulder.

After five hours of searching, Borsakov's ears ached from all the noise. Behind him, the engine rumbled as the giant fan spun. The broken metal guard over the blades rattled and banged with every turn. The prop-wash that propelled the craft shook reeds and branches behind the boat.

The pilot wore the only set of earphones. He rested one hand on the steering stick, the other on the throttle. The smell of smoke and diesel fuel masked the mossy dampness of the swamp. They idled through a shallow section of open water.

The searchlight swept the reeds that rimmed the edges.

Over the course of the night, they'd seen wild boar and elk, scared eagles from nests, glided past beaver dams and through clouds of insects. Their searchlight had reflected off thousands of smaller eyes, denizens of the swamp.

Still, they'd seen no sign of the escapees.

And on their last tank of fuel, they had until

A simian scream cut through the engine's rumble. It came from the right. The soldiers at the prow heard it, too. Both searchlight and rifle swung in that direction. Borsakov touched the pilot's shoulder and pointed.

In the flash of light, something large swung across a narrow gap in the treeline, then disappeared into the forest. Borsakov knew one of the laboratory animals had also vanished with the children. A chimpanzee.

The engine roared louder as the pilot pushed the throttle stick forward. The boat sped toward the gap, gliding up on a cushion of air. The craft slowed as they reached the edge of the open water. The reeds here were bent, where someone had pushed through to reach a side channel.

Finally

Borsakov pointed ahead.

Past the gap, a narrow channel snaked ahead, lined by willows and choked by floating patches of weed. The craft sped up. The searchlight swept to all sides, piercing through the darkness. The rifleman reached down to the water and scooped up an empty plastic water bottle.

Someone had definitely been through here.

Borsakov waved the pilot to a faster clip, sensing his targets couldn't be far.

The course ambled in gentle curves. The boat followed swiftly, sweeping right and left.

The searchlight revealed more debris floating in the water, bits of trash and more bottles. Too much. Something was wrong here. Their prey had never been this foolish. Suspicious, Borsakov reached to the pilot and squeezed his shoulder. He motioned him to slow down.

Monk heard the engine's roar lower to a rumble.

Crouched with the children, he watched the airboat glide into view around the last bend in the channel, plainly throttling down, going too slowly.

Not good.

The searchlight speared forward, gliding across the water straight at them. They would be spotted in a second. Their only hope

from out of the dark forest to the left, a dark shadow leaped headlong over the boat. It flew high, clearing the blades, but from its clenched feet, a handful of dark objects were tossed at the boat.

They struck the giant fan like bomb loads.

The shotgun shells from the cabin.

Monk heard them pop against the blades. The fan sliced through the plastic casings, which didn't ignite, but which still exploded outward with stinging birdshot.

Cries erupted, half surprise and half pain as the crew was struck by flying pellets. The pilot, high in his seat, ducked and dropped in fear. He hit his stick, and the engine roared to life. The boat kicked forward like a stung jackrabbit, off kilter by the turn. The pilot wrested the control stick.

The searchlight blazed down the channel and swept over them, highlighting them in its brilliance. Monk saw the copilot scream and point.

Too late, buddy.

The two soldiers in front were suddenly flung backward. They struck the others.

Tangled in a group, they hit the metal guard at the rear of the boat. The airboat jackknifed into the air and barrel-rolled.

Monk heard a scream of agony and a stuttered grind of blades. Blood and bone sprayed out of the back of the fan like a contrail then the boat struck the water upside down, landing hard with a gasp of diesel smoke and a drowning choke from its engine. The searchlight still glowed out of the murky water.

Monk turned away. Earlier, with the children's help, he had braided fishing line from the cabin into a translucent rope as thick as his finger then he rigged it shoulder-height across the channel. It had clotheslined the crew and flipped the unstable boat.

From out of the trees above the raft, Marta dropped and landed leadenly to the planks. Pyotr was immediately in her arms. She sat on her haunches, gasping, panting. Still, she hugged Pyotr. Her eyes, though, were fixed on Monk, glassy and bright in the moonlight.

Monk nodded to her, grateful, yet at the same time, slightly unnerved.

He had needed the airboat to fly up the channel, drawn by the sure trail of their prey. Marta's bombardment had been intended only as a distraction to keep them from seeing the rope strung across the channel.

She had done her job brilliantly.

Pyotr clung to her. After explaining the plan earlier, the boy had sat with

Marta and held out the shotgun shells. He spoke slowly to her in Russian, but

Monk suspected the true understanding between the pair arose from much deeper.

In the end, she had taken the shells in the toes of her feet, leaped into the trees, and vanished.

Monk poled out across the next channel. Here a sluggish current propelled them onward. Toward the distant shore. Though relieved that his trap had worked, Monk knew with certainty that they were sweeping toward even greater danger.

But he had no choice.

Millions of lives were at stake.

Still, Monk studied Marta and the three children. To him, with no memory of another life, they were his world. They were all that mattered. He would do all he could to protect them.

As he urged the raft along the current, he recalled the painful flashback at the cabin as he had half drowsed.

The taste of cinnamon, soft lips

What life had been stolen from him?

And could he ever get it back?

12:04 A. M.

Washington, D. C.

Just after midnight, Kat hung up the phone and stood up from the table. She glanced toward the window into the neighboring hospital room. She had finished a conference call with Director Crowe and Sean McKnight. The two were up in

Painter's office, waging an interdepartmental war from their bunker. Both men were engaged in a power struggle across the various intelligence agencies.

All over the fate of the girl.

Kat, with her own background in the field, had offered what counsel she could, but she could do no more. It was up to the two of them to find some way to thwart John Mapplethorpe.

Kat knew where she could do the most good.

She crossed toward the door that led into the hospital room. It was guarded by an armed corpsman. She paused by the window of one-way glass and stared into the room.

Propped by pillows in the bed, Sasha sat with a coloring book in her lap and a box of Crayola crayons. With an intravenous line still in her arm, she worked on a page, her face intent but calm.

Sasha suddenly glanced up from her work and stared straight at Kat. The glass was mirrored on the other side; there was no way the child could see that she was there. But Kat could not shake the sense that the girl was looking at her, could see her.

To one side, Yuri sat in a chair. He had pulled Sasha from the brink of death, proving his skill. He seemed as relieved as Kat at the girl's recovery.

Satisfied and exhausted, he sat slumped in his seat, chin on his chest, lightly drowsing.

Kat turned and nodded to the guard. He had already unlocked the door and swung it open for her. She crossed into the room. McBride still sat in the same chair.

He had only moved to make a few phone calls and to use the restroom, always under guard.

On the other side of the bed from Yuri, Lisa and Malcolm stood, both with charts in hand. They compared notes and numbers, as cryptic as any code.

Lisa smiled at her as she joined them. Her recovery is remarkable. I could spend years just studying the treatment regimen.

But it's only a stopgap, Kat said and nodded to Yuri. Not a cure.

Lisa's expression sobered and turned back to the girl. That's true.

Yuri had related the long-term prognosis for Sasha. Her augment shortened her life span. Like a flame set to a candle, it would burn through her, wear her away to nothing. The greater the talent, the hotter the flame.

Kat had asked how long Yuri expected the child to live. The answer had turned her cold. With her level of talent, another four or five years at best.

Kat had balked at such a pronouncement.

Contrarily, McBride had seemed relieved, expressing his assurances that American ingenuity could surely double that life span, which still meant Sasha would not reach her twentieth birthday.

Lisa continued, The only hope for her is to remove the implant. She would lose her ability, but she'd also survive.

McBride spoke up behind them. She might survive, but in what state? The augment, besides heightening her savant talent, also minimizes the symptoms of her autism. Take the augment away, and you'll be left with a child disconnected from the world.

That's better than being in the grave, Kat said.

Is it? McBride challenged her. Who are you to judge? With the augment, she has a full life, as short as that might be. Many children are born doomed from the start, given life sentences by medical conditions. Leukemia, AIDS, birth defects. Shouldn't we seek to give them the best quality of life, rather than quantity?

Kat scowled. You only want to use her.

Since when is mutual benefit such a bad thing?

Kat turned her back on him, frustrated with his arguments and justifications. It was monstrous. How could he rationalize any of this? Especially with the life of a child in the balance.

Sasha continued to work in her coloring book. She drew with a dark green crayon.

Her hand moved rapidly across the page, filling in one spot, then another, totally at random.

Should she be coloring? Kat asked.

Yuri stirred, roused by their talking. Some release is good after such an episode, he mumbled, clearing his throat. Like opening a pressure valve. As long as the augment is not activated remotely, triggering her, such calm work will ease her mentally.

Well, she does seem happy, Kat admitted.

As she worked, Sasha's face was relaxed with a faint ghost of a smile. She straightened and reached a small hand to Kat. She spoke in Russian and tugged at her sleeve with her tiny fingers.

Kat glanced to Yuri.

He offered a tired grin. She said you should be happy, too.

Sasha pushed her book toward Kat, as if she wanted Kat to join her in coloring the pages. Kat sank into a seat and accepted the book. She frowned when she saw the girl had not been filling in lines but had been working on a blank page.

With amazing clarity, she had drawn a scene. A man poled a wooden raft through a dark forest with a faint suggestion of other figures seated behind him.

Kat's hands began to tremble. She saw who manned the raft. She struggled to understand. It looked like Monk. But she had no memory of Monk ever being on a raft. Why would the girl draw such a thing?

Sasha must have sensed her distress. Her smile wilted to confusion. Her lips trembled, as though fearful she had done something wrong. She stared from Yuri to Kat. Tears glistened. She mumbled in Russian, apologetic and scared.

Yuri scooted closer and reassured her with the soft voice of a grandfather. Kat forced down her reaction for the child's sake. Still, her heart pounded. She remembered seeing Yuri stiffen when he saw the child's earlier picture. At the time, for a split second, she had thought maybe he had recognized the face on the paper, but that was impossible.

McBride climbed out of his chair and approached the bed, plainly curious.

Kat ignored him. It was none of his business. Instead, her gaze fixed on Yuri.

The man met her stare over the top of Sasha's head. Like the child, he wore an apologetic expression.

Why would

A muffled explosion rocked through the facility, echoing down from above. Alarm bells rang out. All eyes turned toward the ceiling, but Kat leaped to her feet.

She was a fraction of a second too slow.

McBride lunged out and grabbed Dr. Lisa Cummings by her blond French braid. He pulled her toward him while he backpedaled to the wall. Kat Bryant grabbed for him but missed. He slammed back into the corner, out of direct sight line from the door and the window.

His other hand pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. He pressed a button on its side, and the top half flipped in his fingers, revealing a small barrel.

He shoved it hard against Lisa's throat, pointing it up toward her skull.

Don't move, he whispered in her ear.

Cell phone guns had become the scourge of security forces. But the device

Mapplethorpe had given him was state-of-the-art. He could even take calls on it.

It had passed through the security search and scanner without a blip of concern.

Chambered in .22-caliber rounds, there was unfortunately a limit to the weapon.

I have five bullets! he shouted to the stunned room. I will kill the doctor first then the child.

A guard leveled a weapon at him, but he kept shielded behind Lisa's body.

Drop your gun! he boomed at the man.

The guard kept his position, weapon never wavering.

No one has to die! McBride said. He nodded his head upward. We only want the child. So put down your pistol!

Kat straightened from her tumbled grab. She had come close to nabbing him. He would have to watch her closely. In turn, she eyed him, studying him like a book. Still, the woman motioned for the guard to lower his weapon.

Drop it and kick it over here! McBride ordered.

With another nod from Kat, the sidearm skittered over to his toes.

McBride's mission was simple: to secure the child until Mapplethorpe and his forces arrived.

All we have to do is wait! he said. So no sudden moves, no heroes.

As the explosion rocked though the subterranean bunker, Painter instinctively turned to the wall monitor on his left. The large screen displayed a live feed from Sasha's room.

Painter shot to his feet. His heart pounded, and his vision narrowed with fury.

He brought up the sound with a blind punch to his keyboard.

No sudden moves, no heroes!

Sean rose on the other side of the desk. Gunfire echoed down to them. Painter brought up the camera feed from the top level of Sigma and displayed it on the screen behind his desk. He tore his eyes away from Lisa and checked the other monitor. Smoke filled the passageway. Helmeted figures in Kevlar vests and face masks ran low through the pall, rifles on their shoulders.

I can't believe the bastard's goddamn nerve, Sean said.

There was no need to guess who he meant.

Mapplethorpe.

They're going for the girl, Sean growled out.

A bullhorn echoed from the topmost level of Sigma. EVERYONE DOWN ON THE FLOOR!

ANY RESISTANCE WILL BE MET WITH DEADLY FORCE!

Sean crossed to Painter. There's no way this is sanctioned. We would have been issued a stand-down order first. The bastard's gone rogue. Sean turned toward him. You know what you have to do.

Painter's attention returned to Lisa. He saw the weapon pressed under her jaw, a tender neck he kissed each morning. But he slowly nodded. There was a fail-safe if Sigma was ever under attack by a hostile force.

But first he needed to get his people out of harm's way. This war was between

Painter and Mapplethorpe. He picked up the phone. Brant.

Sir! His aide's voice was curt and ready.

Sound Protocol Alpha.

Yes, sir.

A new klaxon rang out, ordering all personnel to evacuate to the nearest emergency exit. Mapplethorpe just wanted a clear path to the child. To protect his people, Painter intended to provide that.

Sean headed to the door. I'm going up. I'll attempt to negotiate, but if I fail

Understood. Painter turned, pulled a drawer, and removed a Sig Sauer P220 pistol. Take this.

Sean shook his head. Firepower isn't going to get us out of this.

His friend left. Painter gripped the pistol and studied the screen. He had one last duty to Sigma. He shifted to his computer and typed in the fail-safe code, then pressed his thumb to the fingerprint reader.

A red square appeared, layered over a blue schematic of the facility's air-ventilation system. The default countdown was set at fifteen minutes.

Painter doubled the time and synchronized it with his watch to go active at

0100. He stared between the door and the wall screen. He had a lot to accomplish in such a short time. Still

Typing rapidly, Painter entered the final code to activate. The numbers started counting down.

With pistol in hand, he ran for the door.

7:05 A. M.

Southern Ural Mountains

As the sun first peeked over the surrounding mountains, Monk shoved with his pole and drove the raft deep into the reeds. The prow ground into a muddy bank.

At long last, they'd made landfall, as soggy as that might be.

Stay here, he ordered the kids.

Using the pole, he tested for solid footing. Satisfied, he climbed off the raft, then turned and helped Pyotr and Kiska onto a hillock of grass nearby.

Konstantin leaped on his own, as spry as ever, but the boy landed roughly. His exhaustion showed in the dark lines under his eyes and the tremble as he stood.

Marta fared little better, lunging with both legs and landing in a knuckled crouch.

Monk waved them onward. The way remained muddy and sodden for another quarter mile, but slowly the ground rose out of the swamp and firmed underfoot. The forest shed the watery willows and stood taller with birches and spruces.

Meadows opened, green with wild gentian and edelweiss.

They reached the top of a rise, and a clear view spread ahead of them.

A mile away, a small town, split by a silver-flowing creek, dotted the lower slope of the neighboring mountain. Monk studied the place. It appeared long deserted and abandoned. The derelict mix of stone and wooden buildings climbed the slopes around a switchbacking gravel road. An old mill neighbored the rocky creek. Its waterwheel lay fallen and broken across the stream like a bridge.

Several other structures had collapsed in on themselves, and the place had a wild overgrown look to it, buried in high grasses and lush with juniper bushes and fir trees.

It's an old mining town, Konstantin explained. The boy unfolded the map, to check their bearings. No one lives there. Not safe.

How much farther until we reach the mine shaft? Monk asked.

The boy measured with his thumb on the map, then pointed to the ramshackle collection of buildings. Another half mile past the town. Not far.

Konstantin glanced off to the right of the town. His expression soured. He didn't have to say anything. Half hidden behind the shoulder of the mountain, a large greenish black body of water stretched off to the horizon.

Lake Karachay.

Monk checked his badge. It still registered a reddish hue. But to reach the town, they would have to head directly toward the lake, deeper into its radioactive shadow.

How hot is that place? Monk asked, nodding to the town.

Konstantin refolded the map and stood. We should not stop for a picnic.

Monk stared back at the boy, appreciating his attempt at levity. But neither of them laughed. Still, Monk hooked an arm around the boy as they marched ahead. He gave Konstantin a reassuring squeeze and earned a silly grin in response. A rare sight.

Pyotr and Kiska followed with Marta in tow.

They had made it this far.

There was no turning back.

Half a mile away, Borsakov watched his targets vanish over a ridgeline. With a silent curse directed at the man who led the children, he knelt beside the beached raft used by the others and slipped his rifle from his shoulder. Before he continued, his weapon needed to be cleaned. After the long swim and slog through the swamp, his rifle was caked with mud and full of water. He broke the weapon down and carefully inspected each section: barrel, bolt assembly, magazine. He rinsed and dried all the parts thoroughly. Satisfied, he reassembled the rifle. The familiar routine returned him to a calm, determined status.

Once done, he stood up and shouldered his weapon.

Having lost his radio, Borsakov was on his own, the only survivor from the airboat crash. The pilot's arm had been severed by the fan. Another soldier's head had been caved in, struck by the edge of the flipping boat. The last had been found floating facedown, drowned.

Only Borsakov remained, though he bore a long jagged cut down his calf, sliced to the bone. He had used one of his dead men's shirts to wrap and bind the injury. He would need medical attention to prevent losing his leg to infection from the muddy water.

But first he had a job to do.

Failure was not an option.

Limping on his bad leg, Borsakov set off after his prey.